I have always been very good at lying down. Sleeping, less so.
Sleep and I are in a long-term situationship: intensely desired, wildly inconsistent, full of promises that evaporate at 2:47am when my brain decides it would like to revisit every embarrassing thing I’ve ever said, plus the general state of the world. Sleep ghosts me. I stalk it. We both pretend we’re fine.
Insomnia is often framed as a productivity failure, as if the moral thing to do at night is to simply switch off like a well-behaved laptop. But lying awake is not laziness or lack of gratitude. It is usually grief in pyjamas. Or anxiety doing burpees. Or your nervous system politely informing you that it does not, in fact, feel safe enough to power down.
And so begins the nightly ritual: the tossing, the turning, the internal monologue that says If you fall asleep now you’ll get six hours, then five, then four, then well, technically this is just a long nap waiting room. By morning you are furious, puffy, and negotiating with coffee like it’s a hostage situation.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped treating sleep like a task to be optimised and started treating it like a relationship that needed tenderness. Not discipline. Not hacks. Just care. Which sounds very soft and indulgent until you realise softness is often the thing we withhold from ourselves first.
Self-care has become a parody of itself — all jade rollers and aggressive positivity — but at its core it’s really about creating moments where your body can unclench. Not to “fix” yourself. Just to reassure yourself. To say: I’m here. You can rest now.
For me, this begins in the hour before bed, which I now treat like a gentle descent rather than a cliff edge. Lights dimmed. Phone abandoned like a toxic ex. The room warm, cocoon-like, deliberately unproductive. This is not the time for emails or self-reflection or Googling symptoms. This is the time for rituals that say: you are allowed to stop performing.
Enter: the small, sensory things that do not promise miracles, only comfort — which is far more believable.
After a shower, when the world feels briefly manageable, I smooth on This Works Deep Sleep Body Cocoon, a lotion that smells like someone whispering “it’s okay” directly to your nervous system. Lavender, chamomile, vetivert — the holy trinity of calm — wrapped in a texture that feels less like skincare and more like reassurance. It’s not about anti-ageing or glow or optimisation. It’s about being held. By yourself. Which, frankly, is underrated.
If sleep has become a nightly negotiation, maybe it’s time to change the terms. On turning rest into an act of self-respect, not self-discipline.
Then there’s the bed. The scene of the crime. I used to approach it with suspicion. Now I prepare it like a place I actually want to be. Clean sheets. A spritz of Feather & Down Pillow Mist, which smells exactly like its name suggests: clean, soft, faintly nostalgic, like a hotel where nothing bad has ever happened to you. It doesn’t knock you out. It just gently suggests that sleep might be an option. No pressure.
On nights when my face tells the story of the day — tired, dehydrated, emotionally weathered — I apply a Garnier Moisture Sheet Mask and lie there looking like a haunted dumpling. The coolness. The hydration. The absurdity of it. There is something wonderfully grounding about taking ten minutes to care for your face when you can’t quiet your mind. It’s a small act of faith. A signal that you expect to wake up.
And sometimes, I light the This Works Deep Sleep Scented Candle, because fire feels ancient and soothing and vaguely ceremonial. As if I’m telling my brain: see, we are safe. We have light. We have warmth. We are not being chased by predators. Please stand down.
Does this guarantee sleep? Absolutely not. Anyone who promises that is lying or trying to sell you magnesium gummies in bulk. But it does something more important: it removes the violence from bedtime. The self-blame. The sense that rest is something you must earn by being better, calmer, more together.
Instead, sleep becomes a by-product of care. And even when it doesn’t arrive, you still gave yourself something.
There is a quiet power in tending to yourself at night. In choosing softness when the world has been loud. In saying: I am allowed to rest even if I don’t fall asleep. Especially then.
Eventually — often unexpectedly — sleep does come. Not summoned or forced, but slipping in when you stop demanding it perform. And when it doesn’t, you are still wrapped in scent and warmth and the knowledge that you tried to be kind to yourself. Which, on the hardest nights, is enough.
Because self-care isn’t about fixing what’s broken. It’s about staying with yourself in the dark. And trusting that morning, like sleep, is always quietly on its way.
For more content please follow @CherishYourselfUK on Instagram.
between
midnight
and morning
The hours
Shop the feature
Burn, Baby, Burn
You’re not spiralling — you’re glowing. How scented candles turn existential dread into a curated moment of calm.
Cuddle Dressing
When life hurts, get dressed like a duvet with boundaries. Quilted coats, padded skirts and scarves designed to keep you warm, safe and gently facing the world again.
No Longer Asking, Finally Living
After the devastation comes an unexpected freedom: no compromises, no negotiations, no asking for approval. Just the unnerving, exhilarating task of building a life entirely on your own terms.
Why We Keep Going Back to What Comforts Us
When everything feels untethered, we reach for what’s familiar. Not because we’re afraid of change, but because safety is where resilience begins.
The Story Behind Cherish Yourself
This space was created in honour of my nana, shaped by grief and heartbreak, and guided by the belief that self-care isn’t indulgent — it’s essential.
You Are Not Alone: UK Crisis Support at a Glance
If you’re feeling heartbroken or overwhelmed confidential help is available right now. Here are some UK resources that might help you.
All opinions and observations are written reflections that are personal and subjective, not factual claims or advice. If you are struggling with your mental health, please seek support from a doctor or qualified health professional.
©CherishYourself 2026
